


Mint Chocolate Chip

by PiecesOfScully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer Arc, F/M, MSR, The X Files - Freeform, because i needed to hurt more, more of a behind the scenes look, to see what went down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiecesOfScully/pseuds/PiecesOfScully
Summary: Fate doesn't care about your plans.





	1. Chapter 1

Scully’s apartment  
3:43am

When she’s cold she shivers with the force of an avalanche rumbling down a mountain face in the Rockies; when she’s hot she perspires so profusely she’s sure she’ll soon be as dehydrated and ashen as the Sahara. Most nights, however, it’s the cold that plagues her recently frail frame that she finds nearly unrecognizable, sending goosebumps freckling across the surface of her skin. It’s in her protruding collarbones, her jutting hip bones, her visible ribcage that the cancer presents itself, her body now foreign to her. 

Tonight her teeth chatter as she climbs out of bed, clicking persistently as she wraps a throw blanket around herself and pads quietly to the thermostat in the dark hallway, pressing the ‘up’ button multiple times until she’s flooded with excitement at hearing the furnace kick on and warm air gush through the vents. 

The elation quickly fades as her stomach begins to burn like the underbelly of a volcano, the hot lava of her bile churning within her, the pressure building so greatly until finally her simple dinner of chicken noodle soup and a cup of coffee spills forcefully into the porcelain basin of the toilet. Tears flood her eyes, blurring her vision as she blindly reaches for the knob and flushes the contents down. Stifling a cough with a hand towel, she crosses to the sink rinse the acrid taste from her mouth, to cool the burning in her throat.

Her reflection in the mirror startles her as it stares back brightly, causing her to gasp. Her eyes are a brilliantly bright blue against the bloodshot sclera, and the darkness that has settled underneath her lower lashes still remains, but tonight it’s different. Tonight her skin glistens like dew under the light that hangs over the sink. 

A soft grunt and the rustling of her sheets in her bedroom catches her attention, and she pauses abruptly, listening. After a few moments of silence, she indulges in one last glance in the mirror. No longer does she see just a woman consumed with illness. For the first time in ages she sees a wanted woman, a woman wearing a post-coital glow.

A few hours earlier

“Thank you for bringing over the soup, Mulder. I could have just had it delivered,” she says as she settles into the far end of the couch, pulling a blanket over herself. 

“Coffee?”

“Just half of a cup, please.”

She smiles as she hears him shuffling around in her kitchen, the cupboard door closing, the spoon tinkling against the porcelain mug as he blends the sugar with the coffee expertly. Since her diagnosis a few months prior, she noticed that Mulder has been finding his way to her apartment nearly every weekend. What started with excuses of finance reports and case notes, eventually transitioned to his furnace breaking down or his apartment being fumigated. When his apartment building was being sterilized of insects for the third time in two weeks, she finally just started asking him over for dinner and a movie. 

“So, Conspiracy Theory with Mel Gibson, or Titanic?” Mulder asks as he walks into the room, and places two mugs on the coffee table in front of her. 

“Titanic, Mulder?”

“What?” He asks, smiling. “I heard it was a real blockbuster.”

Scully laughs. “Was that supposed to be an iceberg joke?”

“It was,” he answers, and sits himself on the opposite end of the couch, propping his heels on the coffee table. “Nothing gets by you, Scully.”

“But seriously, Mulder. Titanic? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a 2-tape-length drama.”

“I’ll always keep you guessing,” he says with a smirk, refusing to tell her that the shelves at Blockbuster were nearly bare on Saturdays, leaving him with very few choices. That, and he knew she wanted to see it, so he bribed the last copy of it out of the hands of an elderly woman with 4 boxes of candy and a $20 bill. Scully raises her eyebrow, then points to the two movies, and he nods once. “Titanic it is.”

Scully pulls the blanket aside and gingerly eases her feet to the floor, as Mulder jumps up from the couch and swipes the VHS off of the table.

“I got it, Scully.”

“I can do it,” she insists while pulling the blanket back in place.

He ignores her comment and slides the VHS into the VCR, then again takes his place a cushion length away from her. 

“Did you know there were 8 dozen tennis balls lost when the Titanic sank?” Mulder asks as the opening credits begin to roll. Scully wants to be annoyed with the fact that almost every movie begins with a ‘did you know…’ fact from Mulder, but she can’t help but find it endearing. Charming, even. 

“8 dozen?”

He nods. “They were being shipped to R. F. Downey. That means that somewhere in the North Atlantic Ocean, there are 8 dozen tennis balls sitting idly by on the ocean floor. Ironic, isn’t it? Balls are meant to bounce, to be airborne, yet there are 96 of them that will most likely never resurface. It’s as if they were destined to go against the grain, destined for a different path.”

“Is that what you think it was? Destiny?”

Mulder shrugs.

“I feel that you might be giving those tennis balls more credence than they deserve, Mulder. You’re implying that their sinking with the Titanic possibly served a greater purpose than what it really was.”

“You don’t believe in fate, Scully?”

She shakes her head. “No, fate and destiny aren’t generally a belief system that I subscribe to. Fate implies the lack of control and free will, that everything we experience in life is predestined, preplanned. From the good to the bad to the ugly. Some things are simply a matter of happenstance.”

“Coincidence?”

It’s Scully’s turn to shrug. “We’re missing the movie, Mulder,” she said pointing to the screen.

“Maybe there really is a reason for everything, though, Scully. Whether it be the good, bad, or the ugly,” he says turning his body towards her. “What if everything is happening just as it’s supposed to, so that whatever is intended to follow can occur? Like cause and effect.”

“Then that theory would suggest that I’m supposed to have this cancer, Mulder. That there’s an entire half of my life that I’m supposed to miss out on, and for what purpose? What good can possibly come from my dying when I’ve already sacrificed so much? Sometimes things just are what they are. Sometimes 96 tennis balls sitting on the ocean floor is just 96 tennis balls sitting on the ocean floor.”

“I’m sorry, Scully, I didn’t mean…I wasn’t…shit.” He closes his eyes and immediately begins to chastise himself mentally for using his words so carelessly. She sits still next to him, her eyes fixed on the characters wearing early 20th century dresses and suits on the screen, but her mind resides elsewhere. He wants so badly to reach over and touch her, to mend the wound his words ripped open with a graze of his thumb over her fingers, but he folds his hands in his lap instead. 

“It’s just…I’ve missed…” Her voice trails off.

“What do you feel like you’re missing, Scully?” He asks, his voice gentle.

“So much,” she says quickly, but then catches herself and shrugs, as if a simple raise of one’s shoulders can simply dismiss the vulnerability of a statement. Wiping the slate clean, and placing them back in more neutral territory. “There’s plenty of stuff I wanted to do, of course. But that’s the story of everyone’s life, isn’t it?”

“There’s still time, Scully. Your cancer doesn’t have to be the end-all, be-all for you. This isn’t the end.”

Scully groans and rolls her eyes, immediately regretting saying anything. “I don’t want to get into this now, Mulder. Not tonight.”

Mulder plants his socked feet on the carpet and leans forward placing his elbows on his knees, both hands flexing around the mug of coffee, gripping it tightly. “I want you to sip coffee at some fancy little café in Paris,” he says while looking at the floor. His voice is so quiet that if he didn’t continue talking, Scully might have convinced herself she’d imagined him speaking. “To go shark diving off the west coast, or on a hot air balloon ride in the Midwest.”

“Please, Mulder, we were having a nice time. Let’s just watch the movie. I don’t want to-“

“I want you to get married and wear the big fluffy white dress. To have 2.5 kids with a dog named Sparticus and a picket fence that needs painting every summer. I want your uber-Scullys to have their own uber-Scullys that can’t wait to spend the weekend with their grandma Dana because she tells the best bedtime stories about the creepies that go bump in the night.”

“All of it,” she blurts out. Her eyes immediately widen, her outburst startling even herself.

He purses his lips and nods.

“I…I wanted all of that. Any of it, and I’m going to miss it.” She takes a sip of her forgotten coffee, her eyes closing briefly as she enjoys the warmth spreading down to her belly. “I feel as if I’ve been fooling myself this entire time, convincing myself that I was happy and content, but really I have been living half a life. I persuaded myself to believe that I was satisfied, when in reality my persuasions were manipulated and crafted out of fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of rejection.”

“In some situations fear can be a great motivator,” Mulder says.

“Or, in my case, a great excuse.”

Mulder places his coffee mug on the table and leans back into the couch. 

“Isn’t it funny, Mulder, that most people won’t admit what they want until it’s no longer within reach? Is there some sort of psychological explanation for that?”

“Nothing as simple as what you’re searching for tonight, unfortunately.”

She nods absently, her eyes focused on the darkness that lay hauntingly behind the window. “I want…” she starts, then sighs. “I want to eat Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream at 2 am, and not worry about the amount of calories I’m consuming, the high fructose corn syrup, or my diet. I want to dip my toes in the ocean and feel the sun on my skin one last time. I want to get drunk off of champagne and dance barefoot in the kitchen while the oldies play on the stereo.” She pauses with another deep sigh, and when she speaks again, her voice sounds airy and resigned. “I want to make love until the sun comes up, and then spend the day naked in bed eating junk food and reading the newspaper.”

“Scully.”

“No, Mulder, please don’t.”

“But we could, I mean, I’d be happy to-“

“You’d be happy to what, Mulder?” She asks, her eyebrow rising, daring him to answer. Her heart races as she watches his eyes flick around the room briefly, then land on her face.

“I’d be happy to…um… run to the market around the corner and pick up some Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. If that is, of course, what you wanted.” She watches him intently as he inches closer to her on the couch, slowly closing the distance between them, until he’s seated so close to her that she can feel the heat from his thigh radiating through the blanket that lay across her legs. Her heart starts to race as she realizes she can smell the faint tinges of his aftershave lingering on his skin.

Scully doesn’t flinch or back away, instead she continues to watch him as she chews on her bottom lip. She can’t help the sad smile that spreads across her face as the gravity of the situation, of what he’s offering her, settles around her. His fingers twitch in anticipation of touching her, but are kept restrained atop his thigh. 

“I don’t want pity ice cream, Mulder,” she says quietly.

He lifts his eyes to hers and smiles. “It would never be pity ice cream with you, Scully. Never.”

The few moments of silence that follow feel as if they’ve stretched into hours. Just as Mulder convinces himself that he’s pushed this boundary a bit too far, she nods.

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says with conviction as she reaches across and laces her fingers through his.

***

He hovers above her, nestled between her legs, and can’t help but to stare in awe at the sight beneath him. Her lips are plump from being kissed thoroughly, her hair mussed from his hands running through it, her skin flush with lust. Beautiful seems too simple a word to describe her in this moment, but until now the word has also never been more perfectly personified. 

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “Kiss me, Mulder.”

His skin feels smooth as silk against hers as she wraps her legs around him, and she sends a quick thanks to the heavens that she remembered to shave her legs as he presses his lips to hers. She gasps sharply into his mouth and she swears she can feel, see, smell, taste, and hear everything as he enters her, as if her body is acutely hyperaware of its surroundings, and Jesus Christ it’s amazing. 

“Are you ok?” He asks, pausing. “Do I need to stop?”

“No, s’good,” she mumbles, then pulls his mouth back to hers. His groan vibrates against her lips as he pushes into her again and again, creating a slow rhythm. Her hands trail the length of his back, her fingertips tracing the muscles that flex and relax with every thrust. She’d forgotten how overwhelmingly good it felt to have a man above her, inside of her. Like a tidal wave, a realization crashes over her, and she wraps her arms around his neck pulling him closer. This could be her last time being embraced, the first and last time she makes love to him. Being with him, like this, in such a vulnerable and intimate moment has suddenly become the thing she would miss the most in dying and her eventual death. 

She presses her cheek to his to hide the tears that are suddenly teetering on her lash line, threatening to fall. “Oh God, I don’t want to die,” she whispers.

“Scully…”

“I’m so scared, Mulder,” her voice breaks as the tears fall freely, steadily streaming down her face. He lifts his head to look at her, and immediately slows his pace. “No, please, don’t stop. Don’t leave.”

“I’m right here, Scully,” he says, his voice thick as he brushes the tears from her cheeks, and rubs the tip of his nose against hers. 

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispers.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re here,” she says as she closes her eyes, concentrating on the feeling of him inside of her, the gentle hum of his voice as he moans quietly into the crook of her neck, the smell of his shampoo as his hair dampens with sweat. Remember this, she tells herself. Remember every single moment. 

She’s known and experienced the many facets of Fox Mulder over the last few years: Mulder the special agent who pushes boundaries, Mulder dutiful the son of Teena and Bill, Mulder the protective brother of Samantha who’s determined to seek answers, Mulder the partner, Mulder the friend. This new version of Mulder, Mulder the lover, she thinks to herself as he mutters her name in her ear, is incredibly intriguing to her, and is quickly becoming her favorite of them all. 

His pace begins to quicken, startling out of her thoughts and back to reality, back to him. He’s steadily verging on the point of erratic as he grips the sides of her face, plunging his tongue into the depths of her mouth, swallowing the moans he evokes from her. The thought of him being so close to climax is enough to send her tumbling over the edge, her body exploding and melting simultaneously underneath him, with him following.

Xxxxxxxxxx

4:01am

She tiptoes from the bathroom to her bed, and drops the blanket from her shoulders before sliding under the heavy comforter. Twilight hours have a way of making it feel as if time is standing still, the darkness offering her a peacefulness, a luxury that’s become rare for her, something she desperately wants to cling to. Her world has gone quiet, save for the deep breaths of Mulder sleeping in her bed.

She lays behind him, spooning herself into his backside. The cramping in her lower abdomen immediately begins to subside as she tucks her knees behind his, pressing her stomach into his lower back. A contented sigh escapes her lips as she relishes in the body heat that radiates from his bare skin to hers, warming the frigid chill that has settled deep into her bones. She presses her face to the middle of his shoulder blades, and smiles to herself at their obvious height difference. 

Most people aren’t able to appreciate the pleasure of the natural scent that lay in this small space, she thinks as she presses a kiss to the center of his back. She feels a groan reverberate through him as he shifts slightly in his sleep, grasping her hand that rests on his hip and pulls it around him, pulling her closer. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he whispers. Scully sighs and squeezes her eyes shut, begging the tears not to come. The weight of the request hangs heavily in the air as she releases her shaky breath, and squeezes his hand. She shouldn’t make promises she can’t keep, she knows this. So, instead, she says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Let’s go get some ice cream when the sun comes up. Mint Chocolate Chip.”

End of part 1


	2. Love Me Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love me tender  
> Love me long  
> Take me to your heart  
> For it's there that I belong  
> And we'll never part

Three weeks later

The rapid decline in her health was something I didn’t see coming. Sure, the doctors repeatedly assure me that everything she’s experiencing is normal, expected even, but nothing they could have expressed would fully prepare me for…this. I’m at her apartment so often now that I’ve considered filing for an address change. Skinner wouldn’t even question it, and has probably even expected it, though it might raise a few eyebrows in the Human Resources department. My recent relocation from Alexandria to Georgetown has, however, resulted in the loss of a fish and 2 gallons of milk, but they’re sacrifices I happily make to be here for her. What’s left of her.

She sleeps most of the time, though whether it be from exhaustion or pain, I’m unsure. She won’t tell me. And when she’s not sleeping she’s either silently staring off into space, or on her knees, bowing to the porcelain god that is her toilet, retching up what little she was able to stomach just hours before. It’s been days since I’ve heard her utter a single word, so when the vomiting induced groans reach my ears I have to stifle the urge to cry.

She doesn’t ask me to stay, she doesn’t ask me anything, actually, but she doesn’t ask me to leave either, so I’m here. I do our laundry, and dust the little knick-knacks she has scattered around. I clean up after myself, call the Trio of Amigos for the latest paranormal gossip, and watch horrible daytime TV to pass the time. Three times a day, like clockwork, I make her soup with an extra helping of saltine crackers because they seem to be the only thing she can keep down for longer than 10 minutes, and then she falls back asleep without so much as a glance in my direction, and I head back to the couch. It’s become a vicious cycle. 

It’s early Sunday afternoon, which means the tv channels are full of infomercials and televangelists preaching about the sins of the world and Lord Give Us Strength To Love Our Neighbors. A soft knock at the door breaks my spiritual coming, and Maggie shuffles inside the apartment with sing-song hello’s for her weekly after church brunch.  
No stranger to her daughter’s kitchen, she fixes us a batch of her homemade soup, while I pull a sleeping Scully from her bed and direct her to the table.

Scully plays the part of the dutiful daughter and gingerly sips her chicken broth silently as her mother tells us about the weekly sermon that is strikingly similar to the one I’d just listened to on tv, and the on-goings of the Scully family.

“And Bill and Tara send their love, sweetie. They’ve just been so busy with work. They said they’ll call soon.”

After a lull in the conversation, she asks how Scully is doing, how she’s feeling, and I jump in to answer for her because the proverbial cat seems to have forever caught her tongue. I can see the annoyance flash across her mother’s face as I explain the bouts of exhaustion that have plagued her daughter. 

“There’s been no recent developments in her treatment,” I add. “But the oncologists are confident that the chemotherapy will work. We’ll know more within the next few weeks,” I explain.

Maggie nods, then sets down her spoon gently. I can feel the tension thicken in the room before the next words even leave her mouth.

“Sweetie, we have been praying for you and your health at church. Father McCue asks regularly how you’re doing, and has offered to come over here for a private prayer session.”

“Private prayer session?” I ask, glancing at Scully. As usual, her lack of response is her only response.

“For healing,” Maggie says as she reaches across the table to grasp her daughter’s hand. “He’ll be here next Sunday after the morning service.”

Scully looks away towards the window which shines brightly with sunshine, such a drastic contrast to the heavy cloud that’s just settled over the table that we sit at. Slowly, she pulls her hand from underneath her mother’s and stands.

“Scully,” I start, but I’m ignored, and she walks across the living room, down the hall, and I hear the bedroom door shut behind her.

“Oh Fox,” Maggie cries quietly, pulling her hands to her face. “She isn’t speaking. Is this a side effect from the chemo? Have you told her doctors?”

I shake my head. “No, not a side effect,” I say keeping my voice low. “I’ve spoken with her oncologist, and he explained to me that it’s nothing physical.”

“Emotional, then?”

“Must be. I’m sorry, Mrs. Scully. She’s just been so exhausted, with the treatment appointments and everything. Your daughter is a strong woman, she’ll make it through this. She just needs rest,” I lamely try to assure her. And myself.

I excuse myself to the kitchen under the guise of making tea, allowing Maggie the privacy to dab her eyes with the mysterious Kleenex she’s produced, and a moment to regain her composure. When I return, her eyes are red rimmed but dry as I place a steaming mug in front of her.

“Thank you, Fox,” she says. “I’m worried about Dana.”

I nod slowly. We all are.

“I can see her health declining. She’s losing weight rapidly, which I know the doctors have said that it was to be expected, but her mental health… she’s retreating into herself. She needs help, Fox. More than just the comfort of a man, she needs her faith.”

I stare quietly into the bitter contents of my mug momentarily. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her daughter’s faith has abandoned her more times than even I have. “Bring Father McCue over next week,” I say finally.

When she leaves I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. I may be back to the numbing silence, but the silence is easier to manage than a distraught mother who’s feeling a loss of control. I enter the bedroom as quietly as possible, and find Scully fast asleep under a heap of blankets.

Xxxxxx

I startle awake after a few short hours of sleep, my heart racing within my chest and the scream of her name on the tip of my tongue. My eyes dart wildly around the room, the bright light and shadowy figures of my nightmare fading to the bedroom furnishings of Scully’s dark bedroom, as my hand glides across the blanket until I feel her form a few feet away. I feel the dampness under my fingertips before my mind registers that the sheet beneath me is soaked as well. I roll to my side and run my hand down the back of her dampened hair, sighing to myself. As if the days full of nausea and aching weren’t difficult enough for her, she’s unable to find solace in the night because of nightsweats.

A familiar pang of guilt settles in my belly as I inch closer to her, and pull strands of hair from her face, her skin clammy.

It’s become almost a nightly ritual that I help her undress and step into the shower, occurring more often than not these last few weeks. My hand settles into its spot at her lower back, supporting her as she stands damn near lifeless under the warm spray from the shower head. I fight the erection that stiffens tightly beneath my flannel pants as I drag the soap lathered rag across her skin, ashamed of myself as she stands there silently while I wash her hair, gently tipping her head under the water and watch the suds trail down her slender back and buttocks.

We’ve only made love twice, and I find myself selfishly yearning for more. It’s astounding how much you can miss something that you’ve had only briefly. I miss it late at night when I’m fighting sleep on the couch, dreading going to bed just to sleep alone in a half occupied bed. I miss it when I’ve drowned my guilt in bourbon, and my feet are hanging over the couch’s armrest. I miss it every morning as I shower, as I lean into the tiled wall thrusting into my hand with her name on my lips.

Honestly, I just miss her. 

Gently, I guide her to turn around to rinse the rest of her body. My Scully would have normally put up a fight. She would have pushed me away and insisted on doing this herself, yelled that I was taking her last bit of self respect. This Scully just sits idly, following my gentle commands as I continue my task.

I murmur words of love, adoration, and strength while I towel her dry and dress her in fresh pajamas, though I’m unsure of whom I’m trying to reassure, her or myself. “It’s going to be ok,” I whisper as I work the buttons of her top. “I’ve got you, I’m right here. You’re so strong, you’ll get through this.”

Her eyes never leave my chest.

The chair that I place her in looks unusually large around her tiny frame as I work quickly to change her sheets. There is no protest as I sweep her into my arms to carry her to bed. No angry sighs as I place her head on her pillow, or as she turns away when I pull the comforter over her.

I’m barely hanging on. I’m hanging on by the thinnest of threads that’s pulled so taut and has become so frayed that it’s just a matter of time before it finally snaps.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask the back of her head, as I stand next to my vacant side of the bed. I don’t know what my sudden obsession is with tea. Tea has become the bit of glue that holds life together, the cure-all for any situation, my excuse to leave the room without having to voice my discomfort.

“Scully, answer me. Say something. Anything. It’s a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. Do you want some tea?”

She remains still except for the slight rise and fall of her side. She’s awake, I know she is, but her lack of response sends a shock through me and I can feel my blood pressure rising. My face burning.

“A nod or a shake of the head, Scully, that’s all I’m asking for. For christ’s sake, just give me something. I know I’m asking a lot, and I know you don’t have much to give, but maybe you could find it somewhere deep down inside of that empty shell of yours to say one fucking word. Even my name. Mulder. Sound familiar? Try it out, Scully, you used to say it all the fucking time. Mulder. Mul-der!”

I fall to my knees and reach across the few feet of mattress that separate us to touch her back, suddenly desperate for the contact. But when my fingers graze her shoulder blade she doesn’t lean into it, doesn’t even flinch. She lay there stoic, the rejection screaming into the silence as I pull my hand back, feeling the dampness beneath it. The tears that were unknowingly streaming down my face, collecting beneath me on her duvet.

“You used to say a lot of things, do a lot of things, Scully. Where are you? Just come back to me. Come back and tell me I’m wrong, throw your science back in my face, yell at me for being an asshole. Jesus Christ, give me something!” I scream, the words pouring out of my mouth with the force of a flooded, raging river after a month long downpour. I rush around to the other side of the bed and place my face directly in front of hers. “I’m losing you here, and I don’t know what to do anymore. You’ve completely given up, and I’m trying to fight for you, for us, but I need your help. I need you. Fuck, Scully, you’re not dead yet. Don’t make me grieve you when you’re still here. You’re still here, dammit! Come back to me, Scully. I can’t do this without you,” I plead.

She stares at me with those lifeless eyes without so much of a lift of her perfect eyebrow. I cry openly, a mere inches from her blank face, pouring my sorrow into the small bit of blanket that lay under my face. I cry until the muscles that line my ribs twitch with exhaustion. 

As the tears slow and my sobs fade to hiccups, my heart sinks to my stomach as I watch her tongue dart out to lick her lips. My legs and arms go completely numb as she says the first word she’s spoken in days.

“Mulder.” Her voice is airy, raspy from disuse, but I hear it. I cry harder.

She grasps my hand and tugs gently, a wordless invitation to lay with her in bed. I curl my body behind hers, and muffle the end of my cries into the back of her hair as she gently strokes my forearm, whispering soothing words. “I’m here. I’m still here.”

It feels like hours have passed while we lay there in silence, this time comfortable and not deafening. It’s still dark outside when I pull her from bed and carry her to the kitchen. Her only protest is a weakly proclaimed “What…” before I place her frail body upright in the center of the linoleum. I flick the clock radio that sits on the counter to ‘on’, and the beginning of Elvis Presley’s ‘Love Me Tender’ filters through the single speaker.

Love me tender  
Love me sweet  
Never let me go  
You have made my life complete  
And I love you so

A smile spreads across my face as I watch that single eyebrow raise, those beautiful blue eyes looking at me, really looking at me for the first time in ages. She sighs contentedly as I wrap her arms around my neck, and my hands slide down the length of her back, my fingertips counting each rib as they descend to her hips.

“I can’t,” she whispers into my chest.

I press a kiss to her forehead before pulling her closer, forcing her to step onto my the top of my feet. Tonight I prove to her that she can as I start to sway both of us to the melody, our bodies moving easily together.

“Love me tender, love me long,” I sing softly into her hair. “Take me to your heart, for it’s there that I belong, and we’ll never part.”

“Mulder.”

We rock slowly from side to side, her small feet atop of mine as I hum the remainder of the song with my lips pressed to the crown of her head. She nuzzles her face into my chest and her arms tighten around my neck as she repeats my name over and over again, like a chant of declaration, of newly restored faith. It’s with my name on her lips that we find our way back to each other, back home. 

End of Part 2.


	3. I See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How am I supposed to die with dignity and self respect, when I don’t even know who I am anymore, Mulder?”

Weeks Later

“He said that the tumor hasn’t grown, and that the cancer hasn’t metastasized. That’s good news, Scully, real good news,” Mulder says as he turns the key in the ignition.

“He also said that it hasn’t decreased in size,” I mutter. I instantly regret allowing the words to fall from my lips, my negativity effectively launching him into a speech that borderlines a sales pitch regarding homeopathic therapies and their healing benefits as he steers us out of the parking garage and onto the open street with such a finesse that only a number of recurring instead of recurring visits could produce. His voice filters through the stale air of the car that’s rapidly growing warmer, an occasional phrase catching my attention more than others, hanging so briefly in the space between us then disappearing just as quickly, like the blinking of fireflies in an open field.

Probiotic foods, immune system boosting supplements, juicing. I feel myself visibly flinch when I hear the words “coffee enema.”

I can’t help but smile. It is times like this that he sounds just like Melissa, so much so that I can practically hear her saying the words as they leave his mouth, making the dull ache I feel in my heart evolve into a sharp stabbing reminder of her profound absence. As he barrels on to suggest meditation as a stress reducing technique, I find myself wondering if he has, in fact, received a visit from beyond the grave. Perhaps he’s searched her out, seeking her guidance in how to best help little sister Dana, via séance or Ouija board. I momentarily consider interrupting his infomercial-worthy monologue to ask if he has a preferred method for contacting the other side, but, instead, just nod in agreement to whatever he’s saying, suddenly wondering if he’ll try to contact me once I’m gone.

I reach over and graze my fingers against his thigh, suddenly desperate for contact, and his hand immediately vacates its position on the steering wheel to grasp my hand and pull it close.

As I watch the world pass by in a grayish blur behind the passenger side window, I strain my eyes in an attempt to focus on one simple landmark through the stretch of glass just inches from my face. Streaks of vibrancy fade into the bleak backdrop that’s laid out all around me, the once vivid scenery is now dull and subdued. I sigh as a familiar ache creeps up the length of my back to my neck, a dull headache recently taking up a semi-permanent residence in the base of my skull.

“You ok?” He asks, squeezing my fingers.

I nod slowly, and then shrug my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“Scully.”

“How much longer?” I ask, knowing that we have approximately 5 more minutes until we arrive at the front door of my apartment building, but I want to change the subject.

“About 5 minutes, and you said you wouldn’t do that anymore.”

I sigh again. “Do what, Mulder?”

“Dismiss the question by saying you’re fine.” His jaw is clenching, and I can tell that he’s struggling to keep his voice even which makes my blood boil.

“What do you want me to say? I have a headache, Mulder. I always have a headache.”

“Do you want something for it?” His voice is low and gentle, just a breath away patronizing, though I try to remind myself it’s unintentional.

“No. You know I hate taking those pills.”

“But they’ll help-“

“I said no,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“Scully, you were prescribed them so that you don’t have to live in pain.”

“Live? Live?! You call this living, Mulder? Doping myself up on pain medication to alleviate the horrendous side effects of my treatment? Turning my brain into such mush that I can’t even think straight, just to be able to function through the pain caused by the treatment for the cancer that is slowly killing me?” 

I pull my hand away and squeeze it tightly between my legs. 

“You’re just an observer, Mulder, warming the bench on the sideline with no actual idea of what’s going on in the game. I’m living the game. I may look fine from the outside, but inside it’s a completely different story. I’m a fucking zombie when I take those pills. I take half of one and it makes me so foggy that I can’t carry on a conversation. I take a whole one and I can’t even stay awake long enough to eat dinner or shower myself. I’d rather be in pain and able to focus, than a debilitated fucking lump on the couch that has to pretend to watch the latest special on Oprah. Please, tell me how that is living. I’d rather die in pain, than doped up and unable to feel.”

I feel him glance over at me as he pulls up to my apartment building and I have my seat belt off before he comes to a complete stop.

“You don’t get to have an opinion on this one, Mulder. This is my decision. My life,” I add as I thrust my door open.

“Scully,” I hear him call as I step outside.

“Go home, Mulder.”

I slam the car door with all of my might, and I hear it click gently behind me as I turn to walk away.

So much for making a statement.

He walks into my apartment ten minutes later, and wordlessly hangs his jacket on the back of the chair, dropping the car keys on the table. I stare out my window, waiting to feel the dip of the couch as he sits next to me, but hear him walk to the back of my apartment instead.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I flick my eyes in his direction when I hear the water begin to run in my bathroom.

He’s drawing me a bath. Bastard.

I keep my eye sight trained on the window, refusing to acknowledge him as I feel him approach me and pull the blanket from my legs, dropping it to the floor. He pulls me up to stand in front of him, his hands rubbing up and down my arms as he presses a kiss to my forehead. The simple gesture melts my anger in an instant, dissolving it to a puddle like the blanket at my feet, and I simultaneously love and hate him for it.

Steamy warmth immediately envelops me when we enter the bathroom, the only light coming from the small plug-in nightlight over the vanity.

“Just the nightlight?” I ask as I allow him to undress me. He wraps one of the bath blankets around my shoulders to keep me warm while the tub fills with hot water, the steam curling up the tile walls.

“Didn’t want to waste time searching for the candles in the closet. That will have to do.” He begins to undress himself, and my eyes lazily graze over him, appreciating the lean muscles of his body, the sleek planes of his back that lead to the curve of his ass. I’ve never been happier to be of clear mind than I am in this moment. The long-lost sensation of desire floods throughout my lower abdomen as the muscles along his shoulder blades flex while working his jeans over his feet; a feeling I’ve wondered I was even capable of anymore.

Goose pimples spread across my arms at the sudden loss of warmth when the towel falls to the floor, and he guides us both into the tub. The skin of his chest feels soft and slick against my back as he pulls me against him, my head resting against his collarbone as I’m settled between his legs. I can’t contain the moan that escapes my lips as his fingertips trail lightly along the peaks of my breasts, sending beads of water cascading down the sides of my ribcage.

“Talk to me, Scully.”

“Mmm, don’t wanna fight,” I reply as I close my eyes and nuzzle into the surrounding warmth of him and sink further under the bathwater.

“Me either. Just talk, I’ll listen.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

I feel the soft fluff of the loofa compress against my shoulder and water stream down my arm, but he says nothing. His slow breaths tickle the skin of the side of my face, and I concentrate on the feel of the rise and fall of his chest beneath me, matching the pace of my own breathing with his. In the quiet of the room, the only sound I can hear is the muted thud thud thud of his heartbeat, and it almost feels as if we’ve become one.

“I’m losing my hair, Mulder,” I whisper, resisting the urge to touch the dampened strands around my face. “I’m in desperate need of a fresh dye job, but my hair is thinning and I’m afraid to color it. I don’t want to damage what I have left and risk losing more.” I pause for a moment, worrying my lip between my teeth. “I know that you’ve been cleaning out my brush, and cleaning up the hair that’s left on my pillowcase each morning, and I appreciate it. I don’t want to see what I’ve lost. Anyone else, I’m sure, wouldn’t be able to notice, but I can. I see the difference every time I look in the mirror; feel the difference when I run my fingers through it. I know how all of this must sound,” I say with a forced light chuckle. “Terribly vain, but I’ve…my appearance was something I’ve always taken pride in. And now…”

I sigh. His fingers lightly trace my hairline across my forehead and behind my ear, and I lean into the kiss that he presses against my temple.

“As a medical doctor, I understand that these side effects are expected and that they could be much worse, but as a woman… Mulder, my skin is so dry at times that no amount of lotion will keep it from itching, and the dryness appears to have extended to… other regions of my body. Again, it’s to be expected, but it’s disheartening nonetheless. I, um…I tried to test my theory myself the other night when you ran to your apartment, but…”

I squeeze my eyes shut, thankful that from his position behind me that he can’t see that my face is reddening from embarrassment. “I couldn’t make love now, even if I had the energy for it, without some sort of lubrication assistance.” 

His arms snake around my middle just under my breasts, and squeeze me gently. I can feel his unspoken words brimming at the surface, desperate for release, but he’s holding true to his word and keeping quiet.

“The pain in my joints can get so extreme that it’s crippling, and my sense of taste has lessened to such a degree that eating has become more of a chore, something I’m unable to even enjoy. I’ve lost so much weight from the lack of appetite and vomiting of what I am able to force myself to swallow that I don’t even recognize my own body anymore. In every aspect, I’ve become unrecognizable, a stranger,” I say, my voice breaking when speaking the last word. “How am I supposed to die with dignity and self respect, when I don’t even know who I am anymore, Mulder?”

I can feel his exhale rush out of him with the strength of a hurricane, and I brace myself for the impending “you’re not going to die” argument.

“Can I talk now?” he asks, and I nod.

“You are Dana, loving daughter of Maggie and Ahab, and sister to Melissa, Bill Jr., and Charlie. You are Dana Scully, M.D. who specializes in forensic pathology, rewrote Einstein, and has the steadiest hand in the field. You are Special Agent Dana Scully, fiercely loyal partner to one Fox Mulder. You’re Scully, who pushes me, inspires me, to be a better version of myself every minute of every day. No matter what you lose in this process, you won’t lose that. You won’t lose who you are. You might not be able to see yourself anymore, Scully, but I do. I still see you.”

A sob breaks free from my lips, betraying the air of resilience I’d been trying hopelessly to project as he spoke. “I’m broken, Mulder.”

“No, Scully,” he whispers. “You’re not broken. You’re just doing a little remodeling.”

I laugh, then. Through the tears. I laugh so hard that my cheeks hurt and the muscles along my ribcage twitch.

Xxxxx

I can hear him fussing around in my kitchen as I reread the same sentence of the scientific journal that’s positioned in my lap for the fourth time. Exhaustion has made my eyes lose focus, but still I strain to make sense of the words printed before me, determined to finish it before falling asleep.

“You up?”

I smile and nod once, taking off my glasses and setting them on the nightstand. He pads into my room, one of my soup bowls in hand.

“What’s that? Not more soup, I hope,” I say, my nose scrunched in mild disgust, and my stomach begins to churn. I can still smell remnants of the last round of chicken noodle that was flushed a few hours earlier.

“Not soup,” he says with a smirk as he sits next to me on the bed. “I read that those going through treatment for cancer can sometimes require stronger tasting foods. I thought this might do the trick.”

He gently pushes the bowl towards me and lifts the spoon.

I feel my eyebrow rise. “Mint chocolate chip ice cream?”

“Try it. The peppermint might also help to ease your nausea.”

“Mulder…”

“Please, Scully? Just a taste,” he says encouragingly.

The hope in his eyes shines brightly as I take the spoon, bringing the minty green ice cream to my lips, letting a small dollop slide into my mouth. He watches me intently as I let it melt thickly against my tongue, the few harder bits of chocolate brushing against my taste buds, and for a moment I think I can taste faint traces of the mint.

The crushing weight of disappointment sinks into me as I realize that I can’t, but he’s still watching me, still so optimistic, so I force a smile.

“Can you taste it?” He asks, his own smile broadening.

I swirl the flavorless cream in my mouth, then swallow without chewing the chocolate chips.

“Yes,” I lie. “Pass me another spoonful.”

xxxxx

End of part 3


	4. Bubbles in the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was the storm that I wasn’t prepared to weather, a force of nature that I’d received no warning of.

I swallow a groan as I turn to face her, sleeping peacefully, just inches from me in bed. I move cautiously so not to wake her; it’s been months since she’s slept through the night. As I watch the slow rise and fall of her breathing, I convince myself that if I don’t look at the clock, don’t do the math regarding the number of hours I’ve tossed and turned, then I won’t know how much sleep I missed in the morning. Maybe I won’t feel as tired.

This trick of the mind is one I taught myself ages ago when nightmares plagued my twilight hours, when I began suffering regularly from self-induced insomnia. At times in previous years exhaustion has nearly crippled me, reducing my days to riding the caffeine influenced roller coaster of highs and lows until 5pm when I could race home and finally crash. Finding comfort in the last rays of sunshine, their glow washing away the haunted visions that kept me awake in the dark.

It’s not the nightmares, however, that keep me up tonight.

She jerks gently as she dreams, her legs twitching under the heavy comforter that lay over us, and I wonder how the hell she’s able to sleep at a time like this. My stomach has been a twisted knot of anxiety the entire day, and I found myself puttering around her apartment in an attempt to keep myself busy. To keep myself from thinking.

I stared at her, squinting my eyes in an effort to see through this facade she had recently donned, but was awestruck to find nothing but genuine calmness. When had we flipped the script? In the last 24 hours I felt as if she had grabbed me by the shoulders and spun us around; me landing in her position, crippled by uncertainty and doubt, and she taking my place as a bulwark of strength and encouragement.

“Mulder?”

I offered her a wide grin, one of the sanguine smiles I’ve had months to perfect, and forced myself to nod. “Of course,” I said quickly. “I’m just going to finish up in here, and then I’ll get dinner started.” 

I could hear her nasally chuckle as I ducked backwards into the bathroom, and turned on the faucet to rinse down the blue paste that covered the surface of her freshly scrubbed bathtub. The sudden roar of the gushing water reverberated through the small space, drowning my smile with it. I watched, mesmerized, as it rushed in and immediately began mixing with the cleaning agent, blending seamlessly around the edges, making it impossible to see where one ended and the other began. They danced together like two lovers down the long length of the tub, spinning one last twirl around the drain before descending into their fated journey through the plumbing, to their destination of the unknown.

She kicks again and I’m startled from my thoughts, jerked back into the late night reality of the woman lying next to me and the worries of what tomorrow brings. Her breaths, still heavy and even, puff against my cheeks as I reach between us to graze my fingertips down her face; the soft skin of her forehead, her delicate nose, her plump lips, stopping once they reach her chin. I lean towards her and lick my lips, then press them feather light against hers.

If you’d have told me four years ago that I would fall helplessly in love with Agent Dana Scully who’d been sent to spy on me, to debunk my work, I’d have laughed and asked what your secret was to passing the bureau’s psych evaluation. It wasn’t that I didn’t find her interesting; she’d intrigued me immensely from the very beginning. She was the storm that I wasn’t prepared to weather, a force of nature that I’d received no warning of. She bustled through my basement office door and into my life reinforced with shoulder pads as substantial as her intelligence, an eager smile, and hair the bleak color of tree bark in the winter. 

“Agent Mulder. I’m Dana Scully, I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

The conviction in her voice and the strength in her handshake were admirable, but they weren’t able conceal the fact that she was guileless, green. In her naivete she stood tall with squared shoulders, ready to take on the ‘bad guys’, the monsters of the night, to find the answers that would right the wrongs of the world. I should have warned her of what was to come, of what she would likely have to sacrifice in hopes of righting those wrongs.

Her friends, her sister, her reputation.

And now possibly her life.

As her hand inches towards me and then presses itself flat against my heart, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps, years ago, she would have chosen differently knowing what she knows now. The simple thought of a life without her terrifies me, but what terrifies me more is what it says about me that, regardless of what’s been sacrificed, I wouldn’t change a day of the last four years. 

I break the sole rule of my game and turn to glance at the clock. 

3:05am

In 7 hours and 55 minutes her oncologist will explain to us the finer details of her treatment and their effects on the tumor. With his guidance, Scully will then decide if the progression is enough to justify continuing, or stop and let the cancer take it’s devastating, inevitable course. 

Tomorrow’s prognosis will determine Scully’s fate, and thus, mine.

Xxxxxxx

2 months later

The toilet flushes and I watch as she emerges from her bathroom, her cheeks flushed pink like they’ve just been pinched. Her hand grazes the wall for support as she stumbles slightly, her knees weak as she crosses the floor to take her place next to me on her couch. The warmth of her emanates through our clothing, bleeding from her body to mine as she presses herself tightly against me.

“Everything ok?” I ask, and she nods slowly. I pull away from her slightly, running my eyes over her profile. “You’re sure?”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she breaths as she runs the back of her hand lazily over the side of my ribcage.

“You said you wouldn’t-”

“Oops,” she says with a giggle. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

I nod. “And you promised.”

“But I am fine, Mulder. No nausea, not anymore. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” she says as she leans into my side. My arm settles around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

“Scully, given the events that have just taken place, I’d say your promises are running on empty.”

She giggles again, high-pitched and sing-song, and I can’t contain the chuckle that rumbles through my chest. If I’d have known that two bottles of the bubbly and a seriously low tolerance for alcohol had this effect on her, I’d have bought stock in Veuve Clicquot ages ago. 

“What if I promise to play your flute,” she says quickly.

“My- what?” 

“Fill!” She squeaks through her fit of laughter. Her head tips back as the chortle rolls into a full blown belly laugh with tears streaming down the side of her face. “Fill your flute! With more champagne, oh my god!”

“Agent Scully, I hereby declare you as drunk. Three sheets to the wind.”

“Three champagne sheets, Mulder,” she informs me with a slurring of her words while wiping under her eyes, her laughter dying down to sporadic snickers. “Or is it champagne wind? Like a delicious bubbly wind. Can you paint with all the bubbles of the wiiiiind,” she sings, slightly off-key.

God help me, I think as I watch her sway slightly to a rhythm only she can hear. In this moment, right now, I’m falling even more in love with her, and I didn’t know it was even possible.

“Have you ever heard a horse cry, to the blue cord mooooon,” she belts suddenly, this time severely off-key. 

And I lose it. The laughter rips through me, exploding loudly from between my lips, and I’m suddenly light-headed from the lack of oxygen and the few glasses of champagne. She quiets instantly and turns to stare at me, her eyes shooting daggers from under her raised eyebrows. 

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, clutching my belly. “That was great, Scully, really it was.” I sigh heavily and lay my head back against the couch as I struggle nearly unsuccessfully to gain control of myself. I can feel the tears streaming from my closed eyes down my face, dampening my cheeks that are twitching with soreness from laughing so hard.

“Mulder…” I hear her mumble. She shuffles next to me, and then I feel her weight suddenly straddling my thighs, her warm hands coming to rest on my shoulders.

“Mhm,” I hum as I grip her thighs, pulling her closer with my eyes still closed. 

The tip of her nose brushes against mine. “I have to tell you a secret,” she whispers with a sudden urgency, her breath warm and sweet tasting against my lips.

“Your secrets are always safe with me, Scully.” 

I feel her hands slide up slowly to grip the back of my neck, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning as she grinds herself against me. 

“It’s been two months since I went into remission.”

“That’s not a secret,” I whisper.

I can feel her body shudder over mine as she tries to stifle a chuckle. “No, silly, but you’re still here.” She giggles again, and then pokes me in the chest. “Agent Scully is in looove with Agent Mulder.” 

My eyes open quickly and struggle to focus on her face that is only inches away, staring back at me with a wide smile. 

“Oh, is she?” I ask, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. They say that a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but that doesn’t make this moment any less profound, sending my heart into a beating frenzy in my chest.

“I have it on good authority that she is,” she says, her husky voice vibrating against my lips. Her eyes close slowly as she leans in to kiss me softly. “Tell me, Mulder.”

“I love you, Scully.”

She hums in response and grinds herself against me once more. Her lips trail lazy, wet kisses across the length of my jaw and I pull her against me once more, groaning at the heat radiating between us. 

“Now,” she says as she removes her shirt and drops it on the floor. “Take me in the bedroom, and show me.”

Wrapped in the sheets of her bed, declarations of love are kissed along delicate skin of the neck, whispers of promise are elicited by the brush of fingertips. Our souls bleed together, blending seamlessly as we become one, our fates sealed together once more.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you the amazing beta @kateyes224 for making my work even better. You take what crap I give you and make it sparkle.


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